


Burning Love

by bookjunkiecat



Series: Glimpses of the Heart [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Complete lack of dignity, Gross bodily fluids, M/M, Romance Ends in Poo, Toilet humor, Valentine's Gone Wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-19 02:43:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13695225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: On the most romantic night of the year, Greg was finally going to close the deal with Mycroft. Only fate intervenes in the a case of hideous food poisoning...times two. Surely their fledgling love cannot survive a night of violent voiding.





	Burning Love

   Biting back a groan of discomfort, Greg shifted on the toilet and let nature take its course. Oh GOD. His insides were on fire. Why had he eaten such a spicy dish? Christ, that curry was lethal.

   “Gregory?” Mycroft’s polite, slightly reserved voice sounded from the other side of the door. Greg’s sphincter tightened and he willed his body not to betray him. As surreptitiously as possible, he reached for the can of air freshener and gave it a little spritz. “Gregory, you’ve been gone some time…are you in distress?”

   He’d say he was in distress alright…much more of this and he might pass out from dehydration. “I’m fine,” he managed, wincing in embarrassment. There was something so cool and perfect about Mycroft that made this extra humiliating. “I’m, um, just going to be a minute longer.”

   “Alright,” Mycroft said slowly, in the tone of a man who knows he’s being lied to. “I’ll wait for you in the lounge.”

   Greg thanked heaven, as his guts heaved and twisted in him again, to hear the sound of Mycroft’s shoes on the hallway floor as he moved back toward the front of the flat. Of all times for this to happen, of course it had to be on the most romantic night of the year. On the date when he was convinced they were finally going to have sex. Burping into his fist, Greg kissed that dream goodbye; there was no way he could summon a sexy attitude after spending half an hour on the toilet. And now he was getting heartburn as well, great. Poor Mycroft was probably in the lounge texting Anthea to invent a suitably grave “emergency” which he could use to extract himself from this horror show of a night.

   It wasn’t as if the night had been going well to begin with. Work had of course kept them both late, and when they arrived separately at their intended location for the evening they had been greeted by chaos and the news that Il Travatore had just experienced a devastating kitchen fire. Given that it was nearly seven on Valentine’s Day, they’d not succeeded in getting a table at any other “romantic” restaurants…not even with Mycroft’s influence. Eventually, hunger had led them to the “great” curry place one of Greg’s (soon to be unemployed) constables had told him about. The food had been pretty tasty, actually, although far spicier than they had expected. Manfully they’d eaten it anyway, laughing at the amounts of water they’d had to consume. Despite not exactly being what Greg had hoped for the evening, it was pleasant to unwind with Mycroft after a bear of a week, to watch those fastidious fingers tear naan into small pieces, to see the light of humour enter the usually shuttered gray-blue eyes. Any time spent with Mycroft was time well spent, in his opinion. There wasn’t anyone else he would have willing spent four hours in that distinctly unromantic and very unprepossessing place with, laughing and talking long after they abandoned their meal.

   After dinner they’d come back to Greg’s place and opened a bottle of wine, relaxing on the sofa as one of his Edith Piaf CDs played. Although it was fairly obvious where the evening was supposed to lead, Greg had been nervous now that the moment approached. He’d been grateful to listen to music and sip his wine, letting the tips of his fingers trace lightly over the neatly barbered hairs at the back of Mycroft’s neck. No harm in taking things slow; they were men of a certain age, adult, settled, mature. Mycroft Holmes certainly wasn’t the type of man you took over the kitchen table because you couldn’t resist his long legs and frankly stunning arse. He deserved (and no doubt expected) to be wooed, courted and treated with dignity and finesse. Not that Greg had ever found dignity to be a particular asset in the bedroom, but damned if he wasn’t willing to try for Mycroft’s sake.

   The last six weeks had been full of texts, phone calls, dinners and the odd walk in the park or night at the movies. Heated glances, brushing touches, delicately worded double entendres, and kisses so scorching he was surprised there weren’t burn marks. Greg had spent the last month so randy he felt like a teenager, heady with lusty, impatient to plunder and claim. Sadly all of that was most decidedly out the window. As soon as he could leave the toilet he was going to douse the room in air freshener, take something for his rebellious insides- as well as something for the heartburn which was sending up warning flares- and finesse Mycroft out the door.

   “Erm, Gregory?”

   Christ, Mycroft was back; Greg hoped evil smells weren’t escaping the loo and giving him away, “Just a minute!” Another quick spray of air freshener wouldn't come amiss.

   There was a ripe silence and then… “If you wouldn’t mind hurrying? I-I’m afraid I’m in rather urgent need of the facilities.”

   “I’ll…uh yeah, give us just a min. I’ll be right out,” His empty guts were fluttering unhappily, but Greg was fairly certain he was done for the moment. After a heavy hand with the spray, a generous waving of arms to disperse the artificial smell and…other smells…he washed his hands, fetched out the meds he needed and eased out the door, willing down a blush.

   Looking miserable, humiliated and uncomfortable, Mycroft hovered in the hallway, avoiding his eyes. “So sorry to rush you,” he muttered.

   “It’s…fine,” Greg paused- God, should he? “Erm, sorry about any-” But Mycroft was gone, hurrying past him through the door and closing it with silent urgency. Well, Greg knew just how he felt. Giving the other man some privacy, he walked down the hallway into the kitchen and downed a glass of water and his pills, and leaned against the counter, cursing his luck. Just as he was reflecting on how long Mycroft had been in the loo, and dreaming about changing into his joggers and a comfy t-shirt, Greg’s stomach flipped in warning; he barely made it to the bin in time to bid farewell to his dinner. Once he was done heaving, he rested for a minute, feeling chilled and weak. Oh God…this was more than the fallout of a too-spicy meal. Swishing out his foul mouth with tap water nearly tipped him back into nausea once more, but he managed to gulp it back and get himself under control. Taking a deep breath, Greg padded back down the hallway and tapped on the door. There hadn’t been any sound before, at least none that he had noticed, but upon the tapping of his knuckles a silence fell that had weight and substance. After a very long pause he heard Mycroft’s pained voice raised in query.

   “You alright, Mycroft?” Greg leaned his head against the door, suddenly weak. “I think I have food poisoning, or a stomach flu.” He swallowed back another surge of unhappy tummy and spoke up, “There are packets of pills on the counter. You’d best take something now. I’m afraid you may have it as well.”

   “I’m afraid you may be right,” Mycroft said grimly. The muffled sound of a burp was followed by a faint, “Oh gods.”

   Wincing sympathetically, Greg shuffled across the narrow hall to his bedroom. Whatever was to come, he wanted to be comfortable; after changing into his sleep things he couldn’t resist lying on the bed in the dark room. He didn’t recall falling asleep but he must have, because the sudden cut of light from the door to the loo opening startled him awake. “You alright?” He called, having to clear his throat and try a second time. His throat was rough and his mouth felt sour with bile.

   “There are no words to describe the hideous disquiet gripping my bowels,” Mycroft said, sounding rather hollow. He hung in the doorway, “I-I apologize most heartily, Gregory, but I think I need to call for my driver and depart.”

   “I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Mycroft,” Greg groaned, trying to sit up and then subsiding when his stomach flopped queasily. “This wasn’t at all-” Mycroft flung up a staying hand and dove back into the loo, trying and failing to close the door. Greg winced sympathetically at the rather forceful wretching that followed.

 

                                                                                                                                                  ******

 

   By the time the sun rose, the worst of what Greg had begun, around 2 a.m., to think of as The Poopapocolypse seemed to have ebbed to a standstill. He blinked drowsily at the shadows on his ceiling, one hand cradling his empty, finally quiet stomach. Beside him Mycroft snored in a light slumber which had fallen on him a half hour before. Greg rolled his head on his sweaty pillow and looked at him through burning eyes; what had passed had been one of the worst nights of his life. The embarrassment of the events had dulled through sheer repetition of passing one another coming to and fro from the toilet. At one point Greg had simply sat on the floor and fallen asleep. He woke when Mycroft tripped over his legs on his way to vomit...a few minutes later Mycroft lowered himself shakily to the floor next to him and they actually fell asleep on one another’s shoulders.

   Despite how awful he felt, Greg was struggling against a sadness which threatened to overwhelm everything else. The preceding night had effectively steamrolled any chance he had with Mycroft. The man wasn’t comfortable with anything less than a three piece suit and perfectly groomed hair…there was no chance that he would ever want to become lovers with a man who had sat puking into a bowl outside the loo whilst he himself wept in wretched exhaustion on the toilet. And even if he did…how could anyone so fastidious and proud overlook the sheer amount of grossness and lack of dignity the night had entailed?

   “Stop thinking,” Mycroft murmured, not opening his eyes. He reached out and fumblingly grasped Greg’s hand, giving it a squeeze. “If last night’s events have not utterly given you a disgust of me, I would be honored to try again.” He chuckled dryly, “After a suitable period of time to allow our alimentary canals to recover.”

   Ignoring his head, stomach and back (Christ, find him napping on a tile floor again), Greg rolled onto his side and touched Mycroft’s cheek with the back of his hand, “You sure you can bear to look at me again after last night?”

   A touch of humour lit Mycroft’s eyes when he opened them, and his smile was brave despite the effects of the night. “I’m choosing to look upon last night as one of those events which builds intimacy. We have efficiently taken several months worth of strides forward in our fledgling relationship.”

   A grin tugged at Greg’s mouth and he huffed a laugh, hastily covering his mouth, as he feared his breath could fell a donkey. “So what you’re saying is when we finally have sex it won’t be remotely awkward?”

   “After hearing every euphemism in the English language for feces, vomitus, and toilet last night,” Mycroft said with sly humour, “I can’t imagine we will ever again have a moment in out relationship that will surpass it for humour and sheer lack of dignity.”

   “How would you feel about a closed mouth kiss and a nap?” Greg asked hopefully. For answer Mycroft cupped his cheek in his hand and pressed a kiss on his forehead; Greg smiled at the soft press of his lips, and they shared a careful one on the mouth. “Definitely brushing my teeth before we do that again,” Greg giggled, and pulled the blanket over them, letting sleep pull him under.

   Time for them to rest and rejuvenate…they had a hell of a night out due them.


End file.
